Wednesday, July 5, 2017

For Sale

"Interested in van", read the text.

 The van was listed for sale on numerous sites and had received interest in spurts, usually from punk hipsters wanting to be part of the new van-living movement. Just another thing that suddenly became the cool thing to do. To The Van Man, they were just posers. Of course, sometimes the interest was from loony veterans with strange names, like Cosmic Charlie.

"I have a guy coming Sunday to look at it", replied Van Man.

"Ok", retorted the interested party. This was followed by a picture of a dirty bathroom with a mirror reflecting a male's ass. Underneath, a text: "For sure man. When can I come in".

 Van Man had not planned on being propositioned for gay sex when he listed his van for sale. He decided to keep radio silence in the hope that the vile texts would cease. They did not.

"When can I come in then?" There seemed to be an aggressive tone in the text. As if the individual was demanding to know when he could come inside the van to rape Van Man.

"I take it you are not interested in the van", replied Van Man, breaking radio silence and not wanting to sound homophobic or biggoted in any way. This was Los Angeles, after all.

"I'm interested in the van and your dick". It was just after nine in the morning on a Friday. Van Man knew only the most depraved are ready to bang anonymously this early in the day.

"How do you like my ass man?", continued the Sexter.

"Brother, I like pussy. But, I'll connect you to a friend". Van Man was careful not to be rude or insensitive to the Sexter. Politeness was key.

"Lol my man. One time thing. We'll never speak on it again." "just try it. I'm pretty tight lol" "How about I come in see the van and we'll take things from there. I have a nice fat ass". The Sexter was now trying to bargain.

"No thank you.", typed Van Man, curious if anonymous gay sex had moved from the back rooms of pornography stores to the "For Sale" pages of Craig's List.

"Hm I bet you think I do this to anyone. I don't lol" "I'm just doing this to you Bc I don't know what you look like" "and it's over text"

"But my friend killed herself yesterday and you have given me a laugh, so thanks for that.", replied Van Man. He had, in fact, been amused. The brazen sleaziness of the Sexter was commendable and would have most certainly amused Swiss Miss. The days prior were filled with shock and sorrow and dark questions. His thoughts were on sad things. And a laugh is a laugh, no matter where you get it.

"Sorry to hear that", replied the Sexter. Perhaps, Van Man had made a profound connection. "Let's fuck lol". Then a picture of an ass crack. Perhaps, not.

 Maybe the van was not meant to be sold into hipster slavery. The van gods might have spoken. Maybe he could hold onto the van for a little while longer, just long enough to put some cash together for a new transmission. His return to L.A. had been mired in a haze of dust and tragedy from the long road. Finally, he was beginning to think clearly again. A man without a van was just a man. Nothing more. And The Van Man was more. It took just a bit of sleaze in the world to remind him that we all play a part on this stage of life.

Saturday, June 17, 2017

Lost Angel

 On a bench in Burbank. At a bus stop on Olive and San Fernando. The Van Man sat. Alone. Nearly three weeks back in LA. That morning he opened his eyes and found himself on another couch. The van was incapacitated. Transmission busted and no bread to fix it. He was good with repairs, but not that good. His metal chariot sat on Sepulveda, alone and afraid. The blur of Birmingham was behind him, but it was like a ghost that would continue to haunt. And now, the days of being The Van Man were coming to an end. How could one be a Van Man without a van? And he sat on the bench and reflected.
  That morning, as he awoke from couch slumber, Van Man felt the need to be social. Naturally, he logged into social media. Overtaken by an urge to check in on an old friend, Van Man scanned Swiss Miss's profile page.

 And with his breath taken away, she was gone.

 Van Man rested a hand on the empty part of the bench next to him. Three nights prior, Swiss Miss had taken her life. The details were murky. From what he gathered from a phone call with a mutual friend, Swiss Miss had a drink with a comrade and dropped her off at home. Then she drove to a bridge and jumped. Swiss Miss had been back in her native Switzerland since the previous Fall. She needed real help and went back for treatment. Van Man had spoken with her plenty about her love of Los Angeles. She wanted to get better and come back to the City of Angels. There ain't no angels, are there?, he thought. Van Man stared at the empty space next to him.
 He could dissect the tragedy. He could sure as hell try. She had too damn big of a heart and was surrounded by too many damaged souls needing a fix. More kindness, more goodwill, more, more, more. Swiss Miss gave nearly all of her spirit to the Beast, the vampiric nature of the City. And, finally, the last of it. Van Man strung together those times the two shared: the laughs, the sweetness, the intimacy...and what use would it be? He was just a witness to LA getting rid of one more angel. Van Man watched it happen. And that was the only thing that made any sense.
 A bus pulled up to the stop. But Van Man was not there to catch a bus. This was the stop where he first met Swiss Miss. She sat alone on the bench. Exotic and different. The bus pulled away and The Van Man stood. The bench was empty now. Angels do not last in this world. They smile and fly among us. And when they leave, we are left with the understanding that we can never be as good as they were.

Saturday, February 4, 2017

Blue Dream

  The light was kept on throughout the night. Just so the rat would not come eat The Van Man. But he was under. Asleep.
  The wind blew into his face and was crisp. The sky a deep, midnight blue. Black clouds hung like paintings on the night canvas. Green hills rolled across the horizon, sprouting mangled trees. All bare from an unpronounced winter. On top of the biggest mound stood three lost souls, huddled together.
  Van Man recognized them, instantly. He felt their fear and knew the urgency. He ran to them and he jumped toward them and was flying. Van Man soared, breezily in the night. The power of the universe loaded within his structure. His was a flight more graceful than the eagle.
  A series of quick steps accompanied his landing, like the parachutists in New Mexico. He greeted the troubled people. Loved ones. Mother, Uncle and Grandmother. They rushed to Van Man's side and spoke hastily, in fear. Silence. Their mouths opened and no sound came.
  Van Man looked out onto the devastatingly blue landscape. No words were needed. The three took hold of him. And he held back. He lifted them with all his strength, creating a space of an inch between their feet and the cold grass. Van Man took a step. Then two. He worked his steps into a few and the legs churned into a gallop. He needed speed for take off. Van Man jumped and flight was reborn, but only for a few yards. His family held on. They needed him to fly. And he was not so sure anymore. Were they too heavy for him to carry?
  Again the legs stomped, but the loved ones sagged in his arms. Feet dragged the ground as Van Man mustered another run. The jump was mighty and strenuous, but the result was the same and quicker. He looked at his dead Uncle and Grandmother. And then he looked at his Mother. The deal was understood. Van Man stepped away from his family. He charged a few feet and took flight, but he could no longer control his gift. Van Man crashed in and out of trees and skidded along the green hills.
  Van Man awoke. The dream was over. But it haunted. He stood up, groggy and turned off the lamp. The room was aglow in sunlight and would keep the rat hiding. He walked into the cold hallway and peeked into her room. His mother slept. And in the kitchen, a mouse scurried along the sink and The Van Man put on coffee.

Sunday, January 22, 2017

A Simple Plan

  "Things are bad now I am going to make them good."
The Van Man read over that line and his body siezed. It was a Mother's Day card given to his Grandmother, from his Uncle. A sweet gesture by a son. A reassurance to his mother. The handwriting was poor, but legible. The grammar and punctuation, terrible.
  "Dont give up on me. you are the only one who love me. My kids love me, But I dont get to see them."
His Uncle had an undiagnosed learning disorder. Nineteen Sixties Alabama, poor working class conditions. A diagnosis like that was shameful and disregarded as mental diffeciency. He might as well have been a retard. So, his Uncle was on his own. And he was determined to change his path, teaching himself to read and write when others did not give a shit. Or, probably, had their own hells to deal with.
  "I dont know what I would do if I did not have you as my mama. My ex-wife told me she would love me all my life, But you have always love me."
Van Man's Uncle developed a relationship with a woman that he thought was going to bring him the ultimate happiness. Children. His own, which he could shower with love. But it was at a price. Van Man watched his Uncle succumb to a crazy person's will over a decade. She broke her water a few times and broke his hope into a million pieces.
  "I stay in my room not because I dont love you. I stay in my room I feel very bad."
Depression was not a word uttered in many Southern homes. It was too weak a concept. And Southerners had a pride about them, even though they did not have much to be proud of. Van Man did not see much of that abstract notion left in his Uncle, during those last years.
  "I will get some Job and things will get to be good. I will make some money and go and get my Kids and have them here for as long as they can stay."
His Uncle always had a plan, he was forever dreaming. And, gradually, they became pipe dreams, one after another. Until, there was no more dreaming. The last time Van Man saw his Uncle, hope had left for good. And his Uncle constructed one more plan: to kill himself. He expressed his desire to Van Man one December day. A simple explanation. He hated his life.
  "My Kids love you. My exwife love you, and would say so at one time you are my Mama and I love you"
Van Man noticed the absense of a period at then end of that last line. No punctuation at all, as if his Uncle did not want to stop telling his mother how much love he had left to give.
  Van Man closed the card and put it away. Back in a box, along with old photographs, under a bed. Too much for a Sunday morning. Van Man looked at his reflection in a mirror. Birmingham was a prison that he had once escaped. Staying any longer than required was a death sentence. There was much to be done and he had a plan. Oh yes, The Van Man always had a plan. And he had his van, man.

An Inauguration Day Story

  The Van Man awoke, his eyes squinted and searching. His body stiff. Underneath, a bed that had become all too familiar after more than a month in Alabama Hell. Van Man peeled off the covers and snorted a big breath. He was stuffy and desperately needed a cup of the hot stuff.
  A groggy, stumble into the bathroom ushered in memories of the night before. Too much beer. Van Man flopped out his used cock, giving it a mighty shake. Urine gushed from it and spewed into the stained toilet bowl. It should have been a great relief, but the raging headache would not let up. Too much tequila.
  He looked around and walked into the infested kitchen. Empty house, empty coffee can. His mother was gone, obviously out to watch the inauguration of the new President. But she was not a fan of the real estate dude, so why was she out? His cranium throbbed. Van Man needed the Black Juice before he could allow himself to think any longer on that strange enigma.
  The van rolled up to the curb, in a nice parking space only a few stores down from the little hip coffee spot. The type of place college kids flocked to. About as liberal as Birmingham was going to get. The streets were empty, the sidewalks barren. Was Inauguration Day a holiday? Who gave a flying fuck, the coffee joint was open.
  A bell jingled, as Van Man entered. A television hung on the wall, behind the counter. It displayed the Inauguration speech and a single man watched. He seemed transfixed and stood motionless at the counter, his back to Van Man. The new President finished his blabbering. Van Man quickly noticed that, except for himself and The Man, the coffee shop was completely empty. No customers. No baristas. And then the Man began to whimper. Van Man watched. It was strange and sad. The whimper escalated into a cry which became a wail. What had the poor Man been through to become so overwhelmed with emotion? Was it really that bad? The Man's head hunched low, almost disappearing behind the shoulders. Sorrowful sobs poured from the Man. It occurred to Van Man that he had not yet seen the Man's face, only his back. There must have been some poetry there.
  Van Man took a small, hesitant step forward. And the Man began to chuckle. Van Man could not move, his body frozen. The chuckling erupted into a maniacal laugh. Van Man's mouth hung open and he lifted his leg slowly. He wanted to leave and pulled his leg backward. And the Man's maniacal laugh exploded into horrific screaming. Van Man froze in terror, the most absolute and pure terror. He stood on one foot, holding his other leg in the air behind him. The screaming was filled with pain and torture, as loud as anything Van Man had ever heard. Suddenly, the scream stopped. Van Man did not dare move. His balance on one foot felt secure, like he could do it all day, if needed. Everything was quiet. Still. Calm. The Man spun around and looked straight into Van Man's eyes, down further even. Into his soul. The Man smiled wide, his eyes blood red. He pointed to Van Man.
"Nigger!", yelled the Man, hatred quaking from within.
Van Man moved. Fast. He ran out of the shop and down the sidewalk. Van Man did not look behind him, he knew the Man was there. He could hear the footsteps and hateful screams chasing him. Van Man reached the van and fumbled for his keys. The screams closed in. Van Man dared not look back as he found the door key and unlocked it, jumping in. He slammed the door shut as the Man busted head first into the door window. Glass shattered and the Man screamed, his face shredded and bloody. He smiled wide and looked directly at Van Man. The laughter returned.
"Dead!", shrieked the Man, as he reached into the van.
Van Man kicked, but the Man grabbed and took hold of him. Van Man felt the icy hands through his jeans and the Man yanked him out through the window. Van Man held onto the door. He screamed for anyone to help. The Man had the strength of ten men and pulled Van Man free of the door. The Man held him high above his head, an offering to some god. Both men screamed. One in rage, one in horror. Van Man looked at the ground, it seemed thirty feet below. He looked up to the sky.
"Help!", a plea to heaven.
The Man smashed him head first into the pavement. His head bursting open like a rotted pumpkin, a week after Halloween.
  The Man raged on, grabbing a handful of Van Man's gore and smearing it over his own face. And just as sudden as the Man became savage, he calmed. The Man sat on the sidewalk, looking over his violence. He stared at the lifeless corpse of The Van Man. And he wept.